The Man on the Washing Machine by Susan Cox Read Free Book Online

too clear.
    â€œI’m told your young helper would do anything for you.” God, she was relentless.
    â€œNot absolutely anything,” I said anxiously, falling back into my chair. “Besides, why would I want him dead? It’s not as if Tim was the one who robbed me. I don’t think.” God, that was something I’d never even considered. “And Davie was—”
    â€œI know, Ms. Bogart. He was in the backyard sweeping.” She nodded coolly and let herself out of the front door.

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
    By the time I recovered, the Ten Minutes was closer to half an hour and I found several customers waiting patiently on the sidewalk when I reopened. They kept me busy, so it was some time before I noticed Lichlyter had forgotten her notebook. I couldn’t resist the impulse to leaf through it but it was almost new. One page had been used for the kind of doodles people make while they’re talking on the telephone: several circled words, the most unusual of which were “Rhino” and “Chinese” surrounded by lines, arrows, and squiggles. There was a rough sketch of the Gardens and a list of names—mine, Nicole’s, and Davie’s among them. Vaguely sinister perhaps. I wrote her name on a Post-it note, stuck it on the notebook in case she wanted to retrieve it, and tucked it at the side of the cash register. It only occurred to me much later that she might use the notebooks so she could “accidentally” leave them behind somewhere.
    To settle my nerves I began to unpack some new merchandise, including a lidded Waterford crystal jar I filled with small lemon soaps. I planned to leave it on the counter as a sort of showpiece to see if our customers were interested in more high-end, gift-type items. We add them to inventory slowly, partly because it doesn’t make sense to tie up money in unsold stock, but also because our customers are conservative about change. In a town famous for its flexible attitudes toward love, race, marriage, and politics, San Franciscans can be curiously hidebound in small things. They react immediately (and not always positively) if we move things around in the shop or if their favorite face cream suddenly appears in a newly designed box. I wasn’t sure the Waterford jar would fly, but the price point was worth the experiment.
    I gave the jar pride of place on the counter and took a handful of Gibney Brothers soaps out of the carton on the floor to mark them. I began with my favorite white gardenia. We’ve had none in stock for weeks and I’m the only one who’s cared. Still, what’s the point of being in charge if you can’t have a few things you like? I took some comfort in the familiar routine. Nicole had designed a new price label for us, and this was the first time I’d used it. God, and profits, are in the details.
    Almost before I started, a customer came in—all muscles and a blond crew cut. He asked for help deciding between a kimono or loofah gloves as a birthday gift for his lover. It’s funny how people here are so comfortable with using that word. Part of the American habit of revealing everything about themselves—“lover” being so much more descriptive than “girlfriend.” I often wonder if people are bragging, or simply clueless that no one cares about their sex lives. Especially those of us who have no sex life of our own. He went on to tell me more than I needed to know about her, including that she was a city firefighter and he found the smoky smell of her skin and hair after she’d fought a fire so sexy he could hardly control himself. I urged him to pick the kimono.
    â€œNo buttons,” I said neutrally. And five times the price of the loofah gloves.
    His expression brightened. “Right. So which do you think, the blue to match her eyes or—” His voice faded as he considered the possibilities and I left him to it, dreamily holding up